Before you leave, while short term memory functions adequately, you should record the sights, sounds and smells of Cabo. To be honest, not Cabo, per se,, since you never left the confines of a little resort village called Hacienda del Mar. You didn’t even venture into Cabo San Lucas or San Jose, even though you wanted a Costco fix. The sights of Hacienda are a far cry from the view of the A321 Airbus at 25,000 feet. Most of the Baja Peninsula was nothing but foreboding — hundreds of miles of dark, mountainous wasteland. No sign of life except the occasional ATV or horse trail, snakelike, reminiscent of rattlers on the prowl. Hacienda is polar opposite — graceful, strategically-placed palms, exotic plants, bursts of color from thousands of blooms — all amid old-world, earth tone architecture. From a lounge chair by an infinity pool — one of many — you had an unobstructed, 180 degree view of The Sea of Cortez, glittering like the finest sapphire. Two hundred yards beyond the crashing surf, a humpback did its best impression of a butterfly kick. His/her companion gently rolled in the swells, glistening under the morning sun. Cynically, the pristine moment didn’t last. The distraction came in the form of a bikini clad, fifty-ish female, maybe 5′, somewhat bowlegged in an athletic sort of way, and walked like it. She was well past the age of tight buns and easily past the age of wearing a too-loose white bikini that wanted to crawl out of sight. Get a life, you muttered to yourself. These people are comfortable in their own skin, unconcerned whether or not they measure up to your standard of proper attire. Narcissistic they’re not. To prove it, along came another middle-ager — male and likely European — hips sporting a white marble bag, his “package” plainly visible to anyone daring to glance his way. You had to admire his confidence. He couldn’t see himself, of course. A pregnant-like stomach and abdomen spared him the spectacle. But not for a minute do you doubt he once was a world class, competitive swimmer — why change his dress habit? Bikini eye candy was everywhere, every day. The most stunning body (and face) was a tawny-haired creature dressed modestly, as if to prove the maxim “Less Is More.” She was a rare and welcome sight. Fixating on body types at Cabo is no different than sitting on a bench at Walmart — except that some Walmart shoppers show it all. It was easy enough to block out unsightly subjects — lie back, close your eyes and feel the featherlike breeze caress your nearly naked body (that some other nearby critic probably thought needed a tarp). “Hey, Sonny, get out — get your sister — we’re goin’ up to lunch — NOW — C’MON . . .” Mom’s decibel level fell just under that of a howitzer — loud enough to momentarily drown out the surf. You took a peek. Sure enough, she looked like a howitzer — stocky and strong — all muscle. Her kids will never be criminals. You guess New Jersey or someplace close by. Across the pool three millennials were scarfing down colorful beverages. You couldn’t help glare at the guy who was louder than the howitzer. They were 100 feet away and you thought he was addressing you — he F-bombed this and F-bombed that, issuing a staccato laugh after every sentence, like a poor imitation of Jim Carrey. You wanted to slap him silly, but then you’d have to slap his girlfriends who also reveled in vulgarity. The 9-year-olds swimming nearby either didn’t notice or were fully accustomed to ubiquitous profanity. The thought gave you pause. Once again, you made the mistake of letting minorities invade the things you see and hear — or you chose to give them precedence over the beautiful sight and sounds all around — the lovely, kind and neighborly people, a lush environment created by human hands and God’s glorious handiwork. Criticism can be addictive or at least habitual. This Eden-like place was a good time to focus on a positive outlook, to look at the greater good. These thoughts were a wave, permeating your consciousness when you heard the noise. It came from your left, close by, real close. You flinched. It was a kind of thump. No, not that. More of a grating, abrasive blast. Actually, it sounded like a massive fart. You looked at the guy lying two feet away. He was big bellied, wearing a ball cap, staring straight ahead. His wife stoically read her book. Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe something fell on the ground behind you. The belly rose and strode to the pool. You were checking emails when the belly returned. He settled in, sighed and . . . . THUMP. No! You quickly turned, looked at him fixedly. He was impassive, almost a statue. And this time, the smell of Cabo drifted my way. Your power of positive thinking immediately took a hike. Time to leave, baby. Swing your legs over — get your shoes — too late — THUMP. The damn trifecta!! One word screamed in your brain. Getthehelloutofhere. Tomorrow you will board AA 836 for Charlotte. In time, the memories of your privileged stay in Cabo will merge with other trips, losing sharp distinction. But you will precisely remember 2019, always. This will be the year you decided to adopt a more positive outlook — only to be sidetracked by the THUMP of real life. Sidetracked by a fart. Fate has a shifty sense of humor.

Among the sweeping political and social events of your lifetime, the deprecation of homemakers — the marginalizing of mothers in the home — has been the seminal devastating force in America’s cultural decline. Any grownup can connect the dots. Militant feminists, backed by university academia and vigorously enabled by an equally militant media, begin their relentless campaign — to demean and belittle unlettered, domestic drudges — the dreaded “housewife.” With derision, they target these witless females who evidently have marginal brains, or they would reject brutish, repetitive labor — cooking, scrubbing, dusting, mopping, washing and the myriad child-rearing burdens. Women of substance would never choose to sacrifice themselves to mindless, meaningless, menial grinds. This relentless propaganda subtly and not so subtly enters secondary education curriculum and overtly finds its strident voice on college campuses. Movies and television programming gleefully follow suit, making fun of facile housewives, while extolling the courage of heroines stubbornly resolved to batter down the doors of discrimination — at the hands of, who else, autocratic males. These feminine idols, almost always young and alluring, begin to show up disproportionately as police chiefs, nuclear engineers and astrophysicists. Generation by generation, women begin to accept the notion that they are at war with men — that, in fact, their self worth hinges on meeting or exceeding male performance in any occupation at any level. As more women leave the home place for the workplace, more children swell the populations of day care centers, a fact applauded by social scientists who claim institutional socialization is preferable to parental direction. In direct correlation to feminist triumphs, 40% of all children are born outside of marriage. One in three children — that’s more than 20 million — live without a father; therefore, you shouldn’t flinch to learn that only 46% of U. S. households have a traditional two-parent, heterosexual family. To be fair, you might consider that these statistics have nothing to do with organized feminism. Perhaps, just perhaps, there is no correlation. It’s possible the assault on marriage is just a cyclical anomaly. It’s possible over 600.000* abortions annually have no relation to women’s lib and teen promiscuity. It’s possible the growing disintegration of the family has no impact on the drug epidemic and record numbers of teenage overdose deaths. It’s possible the feminine-led assault on white males has no connection to the continuous drop in male enrollment in colleges and universities. It’s also possible Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez is a closet capitalist who secretly covets a sexual relationship with Donald Trump.

But, then, there is something called stark reality.

In the material world, females aspire to careers, status, wealth, recognition and power — alongside males. They take pride in their accomplishments, leadership qualities and successes — alongside males. They travel to stimulating places, meet stimulating peers and enjoy stimulating relationships — alongside males. Their talents, their achievements, make the world a better place and prove a woman’s place is not relegated to the home. In stark reality, men and feminists in the workplace — primarily the white collar workplace — are just alike. They drive the wheels of commerce — cogs in a machine. Lose a cog and another takes its place. Males and females alike believe their contributions cradle a nation. In stark reality, they forget one thing: they forget the hand that rocks the cradle. They forget the true heroines — the drudges, the laborers, the homemakers.  These are the real women — women of real power whose creative skills, management abilities and sheer stamina, command the most valued institution on earth — the Home. The Feminist Movement will continue to motivate young girls to think of themselves as victims, to compete and displace males in the workplace. Already, more females are in the workforce than males. You already see the fallout — identity politics and cultural degradation. But you can only speak for yourself. As a Husband, as a Father, as a Family — if anyone on this Earth, anyone in this life — earns and deserves the civilian Congressional Medal of Honor — it’s the authentic Feminist — the undervalued Housewife. May God bless her — every one.

*2015 stat

The emails keep on comin’. The NRCC sends them. The NRSC sends them. You know who they are. Sure you do. Or possibly you don’t. Let’s see . . . . how to put it. They both are a type of money laundering operation. They send emails advising that your membership is in jeopardy and that worries them greatly since you’re a very important person. Your membership has meant so much to them over many years. They say you’re part of the inner circle. But if you don’t reply immediately with a generous donation, that membership will expire at midnight tonight. But, strangely, it doesn’t. The reason it doesn’t? Because you’re too valuable as a Charter member and they choose to give you a reprieve — every day going on three years now. That’s a few thousand reprieves. Death row lodgers would kill for this sort of high regard. You must be some type of god to deserve all that attention. Your friends don’t seem to treat you as if you’re anything close to godlike. Somebody’s confused. Before you admit to having a deified connection, you feel you must first experience a transcendent, celestial encounter. Any day now. Meanwhile, the National Republican Senate Committee and the National Republican Congressional Committee don’t need the verification. They want your money to give to GOP candidates that the committees choose to run for office against those meanie don’t-play-fair Democrats. The emails are urgent. Very often, they are “authored” by bigwigs like Rove, Nunes, McCarthy, Gingrich, McConnell — really, too many top guns to list. The messages are compelling.

“Now that Democrats hold the majority in Congress, they are also leveraging their power to block the successes of our conservative agenda.”

“Triple Match Alert. If we fail to meet this critical deadline, we will not only miss our goal, but we will be thrown off course from setting a strong precedent for the next two years.”

“Your support plays a vital role in our ongoing fight to defeat Democrats and support President Trump’s conservative agenda. Become a card-carrying 2019 Charter Member today to support our Senate Republican Majority.”

Triple Match is a pretty powerful incentive, even for a budding god. Giving a $1000 yields $3000. Fork out ten grand? Oooh, doggie. You happen to know donors who do give major bucks to the GOP. You wonder if they, like you, are destined to be anointed in the here or the Hereafter. But, then, in a moment of rare lucidity, you put aside self absorption and gain insight into the psychology of mass delusion. The GOP doesn’t think you’re a force to be reckoned with, much less a god. It thinks — it knows — you’re a Fool — a submissive Fool at that — to be manipulated — perpetually. And you are. And not just you, but the great throng of other American fools who believe the GOP is standing toe to toe in the bloody political ring, protecting the inviolate principles of the Great American Idea. As Bernie Madoff knew and still knows, decent people are criminally gullible, to a fault. Hitler proved it in Germany. While Bernie does time, the GOP and the rest of the Federal syndicate run an epic Ponzi scheme impersonating as a Constitutional Republic. When the Gutless Old Party had total power, it did nothing. As losers in the House, it does nothing but ask for more money to be better at — you guessed it — doing nothing. It doesn’t have the President’s back without figuratively sticking a knife in it. The GOP banks on your sticking around to support the lesser of two evils. Evil is evil, friend. You entertain a theory that the stupid American people should elect Kamala Harris in 2020 and just let the DEMS rule.  Be done with it. Make Ocasio Cortez economic advisor and Elizabeth Warren head of the State Department. Vote for full bore Socialism. Get there quickly, not by drips and drabs, like a hospital patient on life support. Let’s go ahead and bring White America down. Once and for all, dump the Founders in favor of Che Obama. Put the Femme Nazis in charge. Let the dumb people get their fill of a genuine dictatorship. America is already more than halfway there and doesn’t even know it, busily liking itself on Facebook. You won’t be the first to recognize that it takes a calamity to forge a renaissance. Hopefully, the calamity won’t be a hot civil war. A deep Depression might qualify. By the time it does come to some kind of war, the good news is the GOP surely will have been replaced by an organization with spine. And you can say goodbye to these wearisome and insulting  emails. Hallelujah.